


Above Rule or Art

by vicewithavice



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bitty is a nutritionist, Friends with benefits / open relationship deal going on here, Internalized Homophobia, Kent is still a cocky/dweeby hockey star, M/M, also there's like sex and stuff, he's getting over it, illicit consumption of soggy mcdonalds fries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 11:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8205113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicewithavice/pseuds/vicewithavice
Summary: After earning his master's in sports nutrition, his career has put him in the path of many well-muscled young men, and of course he’s a consummate professional, would never dream of making a pass at any of his clients, but when they invite him to the bar, or for supper, well, he’s only human.





	

The air in the club is hot, thick, vibrating with energy and excitement. Bitty leans into the solid body behind him, their hips moving in time to the beat of the music. The bass is an electric heartbeat that pulses through him, a current passing through the soles of his feet and raises the hairs on the back of his neck, and he closes his eyes and lets it guide his movements. Alcohol makes him bold, reaching behind him, pressing closer, ass out, like he knows what he’s doing. It’s more brazen than he’s ever let himself be in public, only a few steps out of the closet but getting further every day, working on shucking off the embedded layer of homophobia that twenty-five years of living in Georgia affixed to him.

There's no denying how right this feels, how different it is from dancing with his girlfriends back in school: no expectations, just fun, carefree, pretending it was enough to be gay in name but not in practice. He could be mad at himself for missing out on the physical side of relationships, but he’s making up for it now. After earning his master's in sports nutrition, his career has put him in the path of many well-muscled young men, and of course he’s a consummate professional, would never dream of making a pass at any of his clients, but when they invite him to the bar, or for supper, well, he’s only human.

Which is how he finds himself grinding with Kent Parson at the most lavish club he’s ever stepped foot in, sipping on a sugary drink worth more than an entrée at a respectable restaurant, enjoying the atmosphere but also the promise of what comes next. This is their routine, a night out after Bittles bimonthly nutrition talk with the Aces, and whenever a personal consultation brings him out this way.

The song ends and Kent takes advantage of the relative quiet to tell Bitty he needs another drink, making sure his lips brush against the shell of his ear as he talks. They get their drinks quickly and Kent leads Bitty past a red velvet rope and up some stairs into the VIP lounge.

“You don't have to impress me, y’know.” Bittle says, sliding into the plush booth after Kent, settling easily under his arm. A waitress comes by with two glasses and a bottle of champagne.

“Too much?” Kent asks, but he pours them both a glass anyways. “Whatever, I couldn't even hear myself think down there.”

It’s not much quieter up here, but it gives Bittle an excuse to lean in closer.

“It's nice,” Bittle admits. “There's nothing like this back home. It's so…”

“Excessive?” Kent supplies.

“Kinda.” Bittle sips slowly between his two drinks. “But I like it.”

Kent's phone lights up with an incoming text and Bittle doesn't want to pry so he looks out over the railing, watches the throng of bodies moving in time, glittering and shining with sequins and sparkles and the flashing of gold Rolexes. It's like a scene from a movie.

When he looks back over, Kent's still looking at his phone, fingers flying quick over the screen, and Bittles not actually offended, Lord knows he’s practically attached to his phone, but he gives him a hard time about it anyways.

“Didn't your mama teach you it's rude to check Grindr on a date?”

Kent laughs and sends off one last text before sliding his phone back in his pocket. “My agent,” he explains. “I was voted captain for the Pacific League.”

“For the All-Star game?” Bitty asks, eyes going wide. He doesn't know much about the NHL, despite the bulk of his clients playing for it, grew up watching the Bulldogs at home, in pubs, in person, but he’s navigating the world of hockey, if very slowly.

“Yeah. Its pretty cool, I mean, I was captain last year, too.”

“We should celebrate!” Bittle lifts his glass of champagne and Kent does too, and they toast and they drink and Kent doesn't look as excited as Bittle feels, but he must be used to this sort of thing by now. He’s one of the best players in the league after all, and he's modest but not stupid; he probably expected it.

They drink more and their conversation veers more ridiculous, with Kent gesturing wildly as he recounts a fight with a Bruin, and twice he nearly knocks over the bottle of Perignon so they decide the rational thing to do is empty it as quickly as possible.

Bitty moves in closer under the pretext of hearing him better, but Kent sees through it and does what they're both thinking, hauling him over his lap so they're face to face. Even in the low light Bittle can see the flush in Kents face, and he knows his must look the same, or even worse. What strikes Bittle most, however, is the size of Kent's pupils, contrasting against the light shade of his irises, so obviously dilated and hungry.

“The way you were dancing down there,” Kent says, voice low, hands coming down from his waist to cup his ass firmly. “You drive me nuts.” He pushes his hips up and Bittle can feel his growing erection, grinds down into it shamelessly. It doesn't even occur to him to be discrete. No one’s been by since the waitress brought them champagne, and from the dancefloor they'd look like undefined shapes moving in the darkness.

“Kent,” Bittle moans, his nails digging into Kent's shoulder, rocking down into him but not getting the friction he needs. Part of him understands it's better that way, he can't come in his pants in a swanky club, but the hint of pressure is keying him up.

“Eric, shit.” Kent slides his hands as far into Bittle’s shorts as he can, but the denim has little give and it's not enough. “If I had lube I'd turn you around and fuck you right here, right in my lap.”

Bittle shudders. He's not sure if he'd be willing to have such public sex, but Kent makes it sound so appealing.

“We wouldn't even have to be quiet. I could make you scream my name and no one would hear your pretty voice.”

Bittle can feel his bones turning to jelly, weak at Kent's words. He closes his eyes, breathes deep. He's not going to get off with Kent in this booth no matter how much his body is telling him that's exactly what he needs to do. Eric Richard Bittle prides himself on thinking with his head, but it's with a little remorse that he pushes away, one foot landing on the floor, and says to Kent “let's keep dancing.”

Kent groans but it's with a smile, and he leans his head onto the back of the booth, knocking his hat astray.

“Alright.” He holds out his hand and Bittle helps him up, and Kent kisses him quickly when they’re in the same space.

This time, dancing is silly. It's jumping up and down in time to the music, it's singing loudly and making up lyrics to the lines they don't know, and it's probably a little obnoxious and they keep bumping into the people next to them but above all, it's fun. His cheeks hurt from smiling and even though he's no stranger to the gym, he's sweating and panting from the effort, no longer able to sing along, but now he can hear Kent and his frightening stamina and he’s horrible. Off key, maybe even tone deaf, and Bittle can't help but chuckle.

“What?” Kent leans in, a finger on Bittle’s wrist. Bittle shakes his head but Kent insists.

“You're… a really bad singer.”

Kent looks surprised by this and Bittle finds it very hard to believe no one has informed him.

“Am I really?”

“Yeah,” Bittle says with a laugh. “I think you're tone deaf or somethin’.”

“Huh. I thought the guys were just giving me shit.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, fuck. Gonna sing louder next time.”

They both laugh too hard at that, still giggly from the champagne and everything else, and Kent starts to wheeze the way he does when he laughs too hard.

“Do you want another drink?” Kent asks between chuckles. “It's last call.”

“Already?” Bittle pulls his phone out of his pocket, the first time he's done it all night. It's nearly three in the morning. “Gracious.”

Kent leads them off the dance floor and calls for an uber. It arrives in only five minutes, but in that time Kent's developed a very loud and insistent craving for McDonald's.

“You're not my nutritionist,” Kent tells Bittle’s disapproving look. The driver is easily won over when Kent promises to buy her a meal too, and Bittle’s resolve fades when they drive up to the restaurant and he can smell the disgusting, delicious fryer oil.

“You know,” Kent says when they're stopped at a red light and they've got their hands deep in the greasy bags, “their fries taste better at night. It's like, a proven fact.”

“It's cause you're drunk at night,” Bittle says, picking gingerly at his fries because he's tempted to shove them in his face, they're so good.

“No, no, it's true,” the driver says, and Kent gives her a fist bump. “It's because the oils been soaking up flavours all day.”

Kent nods energetically. “Yeah! That totally makes sense!”

When they pull up to Kent's condo, he’s already offering her tickets to the Aces next home game and Bittle has to subtly but sternly drag Kent away because he has plans and he’s only in town a while longer.

After a selfie with the driver, Kent lets Bittle drag him away, stopping only to offer the doorman a few fries.

“You're ridiculous,” Bittle says when the elevator doors slide shut, and then Kent is on him, pushing him against the wall, bag crinkling in his hand. Bittle scrunches up his nose. 

“You taste like fries and booze.”

Kent pulls back, playing offended. “We taste the exact same.”

The elevator stops at the eighth floor and Kent tugs at Bittles wrist, guiding him into his suite. There's a meow at their ankles and Bittle nearly sprains something avoiding the cat laying in front of the door.

“Aww, did you miss me?” Kent asks Kit, picking her up and stroking her fur. “Look who’s here!” He holds her out to Bittle, who tentatively scratches under her chin. Today she allows his touch, purring a little, but he knows better than to be lured in. She is a creature with a taste for blood, no matter what Kent tries to tell him.

“Sorry, baby, but you can't be here for this,” Kent says before dumping her in his room and closing the door.

This time it's Bittle that comes up to Kent, crowding him into the door, hands clinging to the collar of his shirt and pulling him down into a kiss. It's messy, drunken, no technique just lips and tongue, only breaking apart to remove their shirts.

“Couch,” Bittle mumbles into Kent's mouth, all the warning he gets before hauling him away from the door and leading him to the living room. Bittle doesn't shove, but he's not too gentle about getting Kent on the cushions.

“S’fucking hot when you push me around,” Kent marvels, and that's a conversation for another day, because Bittle would love to explore that later, when they're sober and have more time. For now, he settles on an overly confident “I know” before sinking to his knees and pushing Kent's legs apart.

He remembers how nervous he used to be before sex, the nausea in his stomach, the feeling he was was doing something wrong even though everything felt so incredibly right, and it hasn't gone away completely but he’s working past it. Looking at the tent in Kent's jeans, Bittle lets himself want it, runs a hand over it, excited.

“Condom?”

Kent pulls one from his wallet after a moment of what almost looks like a stroke. As much as he tries to play it cool, his smug smirk turns into a goofy, excited grin when Bittle tugs at his belt and gets his pants down just enough. He rolls the condom on the way he learned in the YouTube videos, because all he was taught in Georgia was how to be virtuous in the eyes of the Lord.

Bittle is thrumming with pent-up arousal when he sinks his mouth over Kent's cock. He takes him all the way down, breathing carefully through his nose as his throat adjusts, and he can feel Kent trying so hard to hold still for him.

“Shit, Eric, holy fuck.” He digs his fingers into Bittle's shoulders, and when Bittle pulls away he groans, loud and needy.

Bittle glances up and the look on Kent's face is all the encouragement he needs to keep going. He tongues over the lines of his cock, wraps a hand around the base while he toys with the head, swallows him suddenly again. The noises Kent makes are amazing, real, not the showy, loud moans but guttural whines that catch in his throat and Bittle works at drawing them out of him.

His jaw is burning and he can't keep taking Kent in his entirety anymore so he jerks him with shallow movements and a tight fist, slides his lips over what he can reach without too much effort.

“That's good, Kent sighs,” fingers sliding through Bittles hair. “Like that… yeah… faster.”

Kent is harder than Bittle's ever seen him, cock solid and heavy in his hand, and for the first time he wishes they didn't need the condom so he could feel Kent on his tongue. He's never given a blowjob without one, and he's not sure he’d like someone coming in his mouth, but he’d trust Kent to warn him and let him pull away, just so Bittle could taste him properly, smell him without the lingering odor of latex that overwhelms Kent's natural scent.

Kent's nails dig into his scalp, not pushing him down but a heavy pressure, and his hips writhe enough that Bittle has to put his free hand on him to keep him still, and his breath comes out in stuttering gasps.

“I'm gonna…”

Bittle pumps him faster, takes him down just a bit deeper, and then Kent is coming. His cock pulses in his mouth and Bittle works him through it with light strokes while he sucks at the head. When it's too much, Kent lightly pushes him up with a quiet noise.

Bittle looks up at him now, takes in his wild eyes, the lip caught between his teeth, the flush that travels all the way down to his chest, and he feels warm with pride knowing he did that to him. He wipes the spit off his mouth with the back of his hand and joins Kent on the couch. Now that he's not too busy focusing on blowing Kent, Bittle realizes how hard he is, how much he gets off to getting Kent off, but he pushes that to the back of his mind; this was about celebrating Kent's success, and if he feels like reciprocating that's just a bonus.

“Wow,” Kent says eventually, once he's come back to his senses. “You got really fucking good at that.” He pulls his underwear back up but decides to shuck his jeans, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He motions for Bittle to do the same, and when he sees how hard Bittle is, he promises they’ll take care of it in a few minutes once he recovers. In the meantime he pulls up Netflix on his PS4 and passes the controller to Bittle, telling him to pick whatever while he grabs them both water from the fridge.

He turns his attention to the TV, watching whatever it is he picked, something dramatic and over the top, and they're only ten minutes in before Kent gets bored. He shifts restlessly on the couch, coming in closer to touch Bittle, just casual touches to his neck, his shoulders, his arms, pouting when Bittle doesn't give him any attention. Bittle keeps it up for a few minutes, but pretending he’s not affected by Kent’s hands on him isn’t nearly as fun as giving in and letting Kent crawl on top of him.

They kiss like that for a while, with Kent holding up most of his weight even though Bittle’s plenty strong enough to handle it all, and it started out rough and fun but it’s simmered into a slow slide of lips, the gentle press of tongues, and they’ve never kissed like this before, like it was anything other than a precursor to something else, but something to be enjoyed by its own right. Bittle likes this, especially how Kent has a hand on his jaw to angle his face just right, and how they’re both hard but not really doing anything about it yet.

Loud gunshots ring out from the TV and they both jump. Kent grimaces, reaching to the coffee table to turn it off. They laugh a little, and Bittle expects Kent to lean back down but he doesn’t. He rests his head on his hand and just looks at him, like maybe he’s never done it properly before. Heat rises up to Bittle’s face and he tries very hard not to shy away from Kent’s gaze. Truthfully, he’s never imagined that anyone would think much of him, his young face, his body that never carries muscles where he wants them. Then there's Kent, his handsome face, his perfect abs and the perfect V of his hips, documented and commented on in many, many photoshoots.

“You're goddam beautiful, Eric.” Kent says.

Bittle tries not to blush and fails. He wants to kiss Kent again, or roll onto his stomach and distract him, because it's so intimate that Bittle doesn't know how to react. Kent's never been this open and honest, no bravado, and it scares Bittle with how much it makes his heart pound.

Maybe Kent is double guessing the change in tone, or maybe Bittle isn't hiding his surprised look as well as he thinks he his, because suddenly Kent is up on his knees, his eyes hungry, his hand on Bittle's cock which has since gone soft.

“Which position haven't we tried yet?” He asks, and Bittle follows along easily, drawing patterns on Kent's chest.

“Well,” Bittle thinks back to when he was here last, about two months ago. They’d spent an entire day inside Kent's, trying things they’d never done before. Most of the positions ended with sore backs and cramped legs, but some were surprisingly enjoyable for both of them.

“Oh!” Kent says suddenly, startling Bittle from his thoughts. “I know. Yeah. Come on.”

He stands and heads to the bedroom, not waiting for Bittle to catch up. By the time he’s walking through the door, Kent has scooped Kit up and he mutters an apology and a promise of catnip before locking the door behind her.

“This is gonna be fucking great,” Kent says, almost to himself, before spinning around and grabbing Bittle by the waist, pulling him in chest-to-chest.

“Hi,” Bittle says, tilts his chin up, and Kent kisses him, soft and slow. He snaps the elastic band of Bittle's underwear and smirks against his lips.

“Are you good to go or…?”

Bittle shakes his head minutely. “It's, uh, been a while.”

“No worries.” Kent slides his hands behind Bittle, pulls his underwear down and off. He tugs at Bittle's cock a few times until he’s hard, then leads him to the bed. “Be right back.” He finds a box of condoms and a bottle of lube in the dresser and tosses them carelessly on the bed.

“Pretty confident,” Bittle says dryly, pulling out a long strip of condoms.

“If we try hard and believe in ourselves, I'm sure we could make a dent in that box.”

Kent slides his underwear off without preamble and climbs up next to Bittle. He seats himself right in front of his legs, pushes his knees up and open, and Bittle's so exposed but it's hard to feel self-conscious when Kent is looking at him like that.

“Up. Were switching places.” Bittle just manages to roll up to his knees before Kent flops down onto his back, head bouncing off the pillow. “You're gonna ride me.”

Bittle has absolutely no qualms with this but he does raise an eyebrow. “I think we’ve done this a few times already.”

“Reverse cowboy.”

And that's… different. They haven't done it before because Bittle never saw the appeal of staring at your partner's leg during sex but Kent's got that look in his eye. It’s a bit mischievous and a lot sexy and it doesn't take much more persuasion to get Bittle on his lap, hands braced on Kent's thighs.

Bittle's perfectly happy to slowly sit himself down on Kent's cock and let his body adjust, thinks it might be kinda sexy, actually, but two hands grip tight on Bittle’s waist and guide him back.

“Get your ass up here.”

Kent props himself up against the headboard as Bittle shuffles backwards, falls forward onto his knees, and his face is perfectly lined up with Kent's cock. He hears the snap of the lid, the sputter of lube leaving the bottle.

“What a fuckin’ view.” Kent says idly, probably talking about Bittle's ass as he slides his cheeks apart, but Bittle wouldn't put it past him to compliment his own cock. “I was gonna draw this out but now I don't think I can wait.”

Bittles got a witty retort ready, likes to keep up with Kent line for line so he doesn't get too cocky, but then there's two slick fingers sliding over his hole and he forgets the entire English language.

“Oh.” Is all Bittle can manage before Kent slides two of them in. It's not painful but it's kind of overwhelming, and Bittle reaches back to grab Kent's wrist and keep him still.

“You don't do this to yourself?” Kent asks, and Bittle shakes his head.

“Not often. Okay.” He breathes in deeply through his nose and Kent drives his fingers in deep, pushing the lube in. “Hand me the bottle.”

Kent slides it across the sheets, along with the condom, and Bittle gives him a few slow tugs before rolling the condom over him, more confident this time, and coating his cock with probably more lube than necessary.

“You good?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

Kent pulls his fingers out and gives Bittle a sharp and sticky smack on his rear.

Bittle shuffles forward. He puts hands back on the meat of Kent's thighs for balance as he sinks down over Kent's cock. Kent's got Bittle's cheeks clutched tightly in each hand, and he can't see Kent's face but he can picture his expression: his smug smile, arched eyebrow, the flush of pink along his cheeks that betrays his unaffected demeanor.

He slides slowly down, thankful for all those squats because not only have they finally given him the booty he’s always wanted, he can also let himself hover when he wants to tease Kent and draw out the moment he’s fully inside him.

“Fuckin’ tease,” Kent whines. He circles the seam where Bittles hole meets Kent's cock, toying with him, and just when Bittle thinks he’s going to slide that finger in next to his cock, Kent’s pulling it away. Bittle takes the opportunity to seat himself fully now, closes his eyes and leans his head back with the feeling of it.

Kent wraps his hands around Bittle’s waist and bucks his hips and they're fucking for real, Bittle's nails biting into Kent's legs just to keep his balance. He moves in time with Kent and it's good, so good, but Kent is too far away. He can barely hear Kent's choked moans and stuttered breaths so he twists himself, looks over his shoulder. “Come up here, baby.”

Bittle grins at the reaction he gets, how suddenly Kent surges up and nearly knocks Bittle onto the floor. “Edge of the bed for me.”

Bittle thinks about what Kent said about being pushed around, but for him, this is all he needs: Kent, too turned on to remember to be belligerent, following Bittle's every order not because he needs to but because he wants to. He shuffles easily to the end of the mattress, feet planted firmly on the floor, cock hard and waiting. Bittle doesn't tease when he adjusts himself and sinks back down over it. This time, he can feel Kent's chest on his back, his breath on the nape of his neck, ghosting over the fine hairs. It gives him the shivers.

“Oh.” When Kent leans back on one hand, the other one wrapped firmly around Bittle's middle, it changes the angle just right so every thrust ratchets the tension in his entire body.

Kent slides his hand up Bittle's chest, slides a finger under his chin to turn his head, chases a kiss. It's messy and awkward, Bittle's back bent uncomfortably, but it's better than not kissing, and he can feel Kent getting closer as his breathing turns into uneven pants.

Bittle's thighs are starting to shake from the effort of fucking himself onto Kent, but Kent makes up for it, bucking up his hips, putting his sinfully cut abs to work. They aren't kissing so much as breathing into each other now, and Kent swallows Bittle’s every whine and pant, urges him on, brings the hand that had been scratching along Bittle's scalp down to his cock, wraps a fist around him loosely, and it's all a second thought because Kent is coming. Bittle's so close, just needs more, but Lord if the sound Kent’s making isn't hot enough. He puts his hand around Kent's wrist, guides him to hold Bittle tighter, move faster, and that's it. His orgasm tears through his entire body and he only just has the sense of mind to keep himself from spilling all over the hardwood.

When he comes to, he slides off Kent's lap, his aching thighs groaning in relief as he stretches out, arms over his head. He knows he’s grinning dopily but it doesn't matter.

“Shit,” Kent says idly as he joins Bittle on the bed. He tosses a damp cloth at Bittle to clean up with, which Bittle does hastily before dumping it onto the floor.

“Mhm.” Bittle agrees.

They're quiet for a long moment, Bittle tucked comfortably under Kent's arm, watching his chest rise and fall steadily. It's another moment that feels heavier than it should, with Kent's fingertips tracing feather-light lines up and down Bittle's bicep, wrapped in tight, an intimacy that Bittle never expected. He doesn't dislike it.

“Hey,” Kent says suddenly, his eyes trained up at the ceiling fan rotating above them. “I’m gonna get you a ticket to the game. Box seat.”

“The All-Star game?”

“Yeah. You can bring a friend, or whatever, but make sure you’re free after the game.”

Bittle frowns, and he angles his head up so Kent can see it.

“What if I have work?” Bittle asks bitingly, a bit offended that Kent thinks he can just drop everything to show up at his hockey game. “All-Star break is a busy time for me, Kent.”

“Fine,” Kent says. “Alright. Just offering.”

Bittle sighs a deep breath, and he notices that Kent's moved his hand off his arm. He hates tension like this. He's not even mad at Kent or anything, really, but it's easy to feel overlooked.

His phone is out in the living room, still in his pants pocket, and Bittle feels disconnected without it. He’s not sure what, exactly, he has lined up for those days, but he thinks he could scrounge up a few free days.

“Well,” Bittle says, relaxing the muscles he never noticed had tensed. “I might be in the neighborhood.”

Kent arches an eyebrow. “In Edmonton?”

“Oh, sure.” Bittle waves his hand. “I have so much business in Edmonton. When am I not there, even?”

“What kind of business?” Kent needles, hand back on Bittle, this time running through his hair. It makes Bittle's eyelids heavy.

“Top secret, Mister. All you need to know is that I may just so happen to be near the arena, anyway.”

“So I should save you a ticket?”

“Please.”

Kent smirks and rolls his eyes, and Bittle knows he means thank you.

They fall asleep soon after, curled up together, and Bittle would have missed the alarm going off on his phone in the other room if Kit hadn't started scratching at the door, demanding Kent make it stop.

“Gotta get up,” Bittle says, trying and failing to extract himself from Kent's arms.

“Nooo,” Kent whines, earning himself a mouthful of Bittle's hair. He wraps a leg around Bittle's waist and Bittle feels Kent's hard-on sliding between his ass. It would be so easy for Kent to slip inside- but the condoms are tangled in the sheets, or knocked to the ground, too far away.

And Kent must be thinking the same because he's moving his hips slightly, grinding on Bittle's ass.

"Want you," Kent moans, pulls Bittle in closer, grabs hold of his cock. This is exactly why Bittle set his alarm so early. "Let me fuck you."

"Grab the condoms."

“Yesssss.”

It takes a while for Kent to pull himself away, and even longer for him to find the strip, muttering and swearing until he unearths them under the bed.

"On your back, wanna see you this time."

By the time they make it into the kitchen, Bittle doesn't even have time to whip up his classic buttermilk pancakes. He slips into whatever he can pick out from his suitcase that slightly matches. Work has him travelling so much he's more comfortable living out of suitcases than his own Atlanta apartment. Bittle's the best for a reason, can tell what a body needs by their skin, hair, nails, anything. It's how he knows Kent's not drinking enough water, so he writes a little reminder on a post-it note and sticks it to the fridge.

"Cute," Kent says, peeking out of the bathroom with his toothbrush in his mouth. "You sneakin' out?"

Bittle's got his bag at the door, his shoes on. "I was gonna say goodbye, silly."

Kent spits out his toothpaste and gives Bittle a minty kiss. "Mmm... You smell like me. It's super hot."

Bittle wrinkles his nose. "I can't believe you're a multimillionaire and you use Axe bodywash."

"Helps with the boy-next-door image. I've got a bottle of fifteen hundred dollar cologne if you want a spritz."

"You're ridiculous." Bittle leans up for another kiss when his 'you're gonne be late' alarm chimes.

Kent pulls him into a tight hug, his skin damp from the shower Bittle insisted they not share, and he presses his nose into the top of Bittle's hair. It gives Bittle the shivers even though the sun is shining on them through the large windows.

"Bye, Eric." Kent takes a step back but leaves his hands on Bittle's shoulders. "You gonna be back in Vegas before January?"

"I'll be in the neighborhood," Bittle says with a grin. "You got my number, don't be a stranger."

Now he really has to leave. He rushes out the door, cabs to the airport, watches Las Vegas shrink into nothing beneath him, a glittering gem in the vast desert. He'd never seen the appeal of Las Vegas, all fake pomp, tacky as a knockoff handbag. He counts the days until he's back.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey thanks for reading! This was really just a bit of self-indulgence that I decided to release. Title is from Milton's Paradise Lost because I thought it would be funny.  
> I'm thehausghosts on tumblr!


End file.
